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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26475046">Warframe</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/'>Anonymous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Transformers: Prime</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(arousal during a medical exam), (no sexual assault), Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bad Puns, Consensual Violence, Dark Comedy, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dominance, Don't Try This At Home, Established Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Extremely Dubious Consent, Fantastic Racism, Fat Shaming, Horror, Id Fic, Inappropriate Probing, M/M, Masochism, Medical Examination, Medical Horror, Medical Kink, Nonnies Made Me Do It, Organ Theft, Partners in Crime, Porn With Plot, Relationship Problems, Sadist POV, Secret Relationship, Sex Work, Size Kink, Slavery references, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Threesome - M/M/M, Valve Oral (Transformers), Verbal Humiliation, Villain Protagonists, Weird Plot Shit, harebrained schemes, nonconsensual violence, twist ending</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 09:36:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>15,788</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26475046</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"'You don’t need to play master and servant,' said Stratosfear with an electric glitter of dentae. 'You boys aren’t playing. You’re the real thing, like it or not.'"</p><p>To pay off a particularly nasty debt, Knock Out and Breakdown infiltrate an organ-dealing ring on a war-torn Cybertron. Breakdown's organs (and other assorted parts) are up for auction...if he can play "big dumb submissive warframe" long enough to avoid blowing the whole scheme.</p><p>He can't.</p><p>A story about harebrained schemes, fantastic racism, sex-for-guns trades, inappropriate medical exams, and the things two lowlifes will tolerate to make a buck. Or, Breakdown and Knock Out have a very, very bad night at the bar.</p><p>(Mostly Breakdown.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Breakdown/Knock Out, Breakdown/Knock Out/Original Male Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Iddy Iddy Bang Bang! 2020, Unofficial FFA Anon Collection</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Warframe</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for Iddy Iddy Bang Bang 2020. An outrageous howl from the depths of my id. All my powers of craft and characterization applied to a completely deranged idea.</p><p>Was originally working on a much longer and more reasonable fic about Breakdown surviving the war and recolonizing Velocitron, but that got shelved due to time constraints. This happened instead.</p><p>Soundblaster is an adaptation of the Dreamwave/WFC character (a failed Soundwave clone) into the Prime universe. Nothing here is in continuity with any of my other fics.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Speak now or forever hold your peace.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out flicked white-hot fingers, and hissing droplets of metal sprayed the walls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Little late for that,” rumbled Breakdown, sprawled beneath him. His own molten metal cooled, a mottled silver film, on his freshly-welded breastplate.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t bother putting me out</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he’d said, with that mulish half-smile. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Even a local’s gonna take more anesthetic than we’ve got. And I need every processor core online.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out had taken him at his word. Breakdown had scarcely flinched at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A ribbon of sapphire smoke, smelling of ozone and vaporized Breakdown, rose from Knock Out’s forefinger. In his open fingertip the welding wire sparked and buzzed, his whole hand crackling with charge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another job well done. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Let’s see those Autobot hacks beat that.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>They’d called him a butcher in Vos. In Tesarus they’d said he was negligent at best--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And now in the bombed-out hull of a habsuite, tasting smoldering fuel on the breeze, Knock Out checked off another successful surgery. An old habit. He’d not quite finished his medical residency when the war came for them all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He perched on Breakdown’s belly, steadying himself with a hand. Listening. Far above, a chopper circled; from the squeak of Breakdown’s plates as he tensed, he heard it too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We </span>
  <em>
    <span>could</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” said Knock Out, choosing his words with care, “call off the whole crazy idea. Who knows? Maybe Straxus has a sense of humor. Maybe we’ll get off with a couple light beatings. What d’you say, Breakdown?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown grunted, indicating his breastplate with a jerk of his head. “I say I washed my armor for this. Ready when you are.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out raised his fingertip, and the wire clattered and spat. Brighter than the neon signs far below, brighter than Breakdown’s apprehensive gaze--a beacon to a sniper--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shutter your optics. The market for blind soldiers is flooded.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out swiped his finger across Breakdown’s chest, and the arc seared his optics. The design he freehanded, from memory.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown’s whole body went rigid beneath him. Knock Out clicked his synth in low sympathy, petting Breakdown’s helm. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Shame about his paint--but needs must--</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>At last he lowered his hand. The smoke coated his chem-sensors and glossa like grease; he blinked away the afterimage. “Not bad. Not bad at </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve done worse. And for less money.” Breakdown’s fans sputtered. He craned his neck, opening one optic. At the sight of the glowing brand he grimaced, and Knock Out felt a burst of pique: </span>
  <em>
    <span>it was your idea!</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Let’s go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out held up his finger, the tip clicking shut. “Attention to detail, Breakdown. You’re forgetting a little something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From Breakdown’s resigned gaze he glanced away, at their shadows on the broken walls, at the columns of jet-black smoke rising against the soot-black sky. Searchlights danced on the clouds, and the helicopter’s dull clatter drew ever closer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gonna tie a bow on me too?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>And</span>
  </em>
  <span> slap a price tag on your big blue backside.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The chopper landed, mere rooftops away, and cut its engine. Knock Out tensed, danger flooding between his armor’s seams like ice water, at the familiar whir of transformation--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--but the helicopter’s light footfalls died away, as if they’d let themselves down from the roof, and Knock Out reached with shaking fingers into his subspace.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d bought the collar thirdhand, at a tatty stall in occupied Helex. He’d not inquired overmuch, and under cover of darkness he’d rewired it himself, in the medics’ barracks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It fit, though snugly, round Breakdown’s thick neck. Knock Out clamped it shut, and with an airy hiss it locked. An old model: the blue glow sputtered, flickering in and out, and for an instant Knock Out’s spark leaped into the pit of his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pretty,” said Breakdown, brows raised. The glow reflected in his burnt-copper faceplate, over the fresh brand on his breastplate: </span>
  <em>
    <span>RELINQUISHED</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out laid a hand on the nape of Breakdown’s neck, feeling for an instant the pulse of his fuel lines, the warm radiation from the collar. Gently and precisely he squeezed, and a slot popped open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown’s credential chip he held between thumb and forefinger, with a surgeon’s care. Into his own subspace pocket he popped it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He settled back, leaning against Breakdown’s thigh, and opened his vents at last. The hot air hissing from his engine tasted of static electricity and apprehension.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Last chance.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The mech formerly known as Breakdown shifted uncertainly, feeling out the darkness. He reached for the collar, and with a grunt he pulled his smoking finger away. “Let’s break ‘em down and knock ‘em out, master.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Master</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Breakdown, too, had a sense of style.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good boy.” It came out in a low purr. Knock Out swallowed, cycling his synth. Though the habsuite’s roof had crumbled in some earlier blitz, and the sky stretched black and endless overhead, he felt hemmed-in. Beneath him Breakdown’s armor vibrated at the frequency of his engine, and a crackle of current washed through them both.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His chem-sensors sparked. He felt, acutely, the gentle press of Breakdown’s body against his own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the glow of the shock collar Breakdown was shatteringly handsome, and all the more so for the apprehension in his optics.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out’s fingers curled. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Eyes on the prize, Knock Out--but keep that image for the ol’ self-service manual.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He rose, with a tiny squeak of well-oiled motors, and drew a glowing lead from the collar. At his side Breakdown followed, obediently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were few surgeons left. Under Autobot fusillades the idealists and do-gooders had long since gone to scrap. In Kaon Shockwave had experimented with clone-medics, and under Order 236 any brute who could hold a scalpel had been retrained as a field nurse--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--but it’d been a patch on the gaping wound. With every skirmish the number of fully-qualified surgeons on Cybertron ticked inexorably down to zero.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So a surgical resident, quick of hand and slick of glossa and </span>
  <em>
    <span>nearly</span>
  </em>
  <span> licensed, could rise quite high indeed in the Decepticon army. In the finest surgical theater in Polyhex he’d operated on Straxus’s conjunx. A mistake, in hindsight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the absence of his preceptors he’d gotten </span>
  <em>
    <span>creative</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He’d taken gambles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Straxus had been remarkably humorless, and Knock Out unfortunately short on blood money.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But fugitive or not, in back alleys across Cybertron a surgeon could find work. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even encrypted signals could be detected, and they cut their comms as they stepped out into the night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out reached back for Breakdown’s hand. A thanks, or an apology--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--and Breakdown squeezed his fingers for an instant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And from there there was no going back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re licensed?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out flashed his credentials, the corrupt chip buzzing at the nape of his neck. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Licensed</span>
  </em>
  <span>? That’s an awful low bar.” And that was true, as far as it went.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the steamy night his projector sizzled, flashing a Vosian license. “Did my training in Iacon. Held the Rudder Fellowship at Vosian Independence. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Chief</span>
  </em>
  <span> resident,” he added, smacking his synth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>nearly </span>
  </em>
  <span>been chief resident. Certainly he’d been a contender.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the licensing exam had been a scant five vorns away--a mere four centuries--when Tarn’s missiles had hit, and after that few had given a damn about licensure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Transplant surgeon,” he added, to sweeten the deal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The guard’s shadow flickered across the acid-eaten window. In the mottled glass Knock Out saw himself reflected, face ghostly in the sulfur-yellow light; behind him Breakdown was a hulking silhouette, blank-eyed and uncannily still. The glow of the collar blotted out his features.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The lead prickled in Knock Out’s hand. Alone of everything in the alley, it was bone-dry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Above their heads the light hissed and popped. The guard stretched, leaning back. He’d been watching a pornvid, some staticky relic of the good times. Between his legs a gleaming holo-star knelt, mouthing soundlessly at his plate.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Get your kicks where you can. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Knock Out smirked, despite himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Expressionless the guard watched them. “I’ll buy it. You’ve got a medic’s hands--if those are your hands--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Transplanted hands were rarely dextrous enough for surgery.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wouldn’t dream of buying ‘em secondhand,” said Knock Out brightly. At his back Breakdown tensed, with a soft hiss of hydraulics, as if stifling a snort. In the stifling darkness his every movement was amplified.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s the heavy?” The guard jabbed an elbow at Breakdown; his wings whirred, sticking at a painful angle, as if miswired to the arm. His frame was a custom job, and a botched one, his LEDs flashing sludgy and arrhythmic. Still he eyed Breakdown, crest to heel strut, and Knock Out felt the soft rush of Breakdown’s vents at his back, for Breakdown cringed at prying eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And he’s worth more than you’ll ever be, recall model</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Even if I swapped out those rusty wings--</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out flashed an easy smile, a smile to draw the eye. “Fell off the back of a troop transport. Awful pretty for artillery, isn’t he?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His leer was not all feigned. Like a puppet the guard glanced back, away from Breakdown, and Knock Out raised his brows conspiratorially.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the guard’s wings flicked back with a clunk and a whiff of hot plastic, the sour light in the guardhouse shifted. Between his legs the holo juddered, outline sharpening, and whined silently at the guard’s knee.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d been an intellectual-caste, from the looks of him, or a cheap racer-caste retrofitted into one. Intellectual-castes were a hot property in pornvids of late. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Taking out a bit of resentment on the pretty classes.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And perhaps there was a touch of envy in the guard’s flat stare, at Knock Out’s grace and Breakdown’s chiseled features. So few mechs these days were </span>
  <em>
    <span>beautiful</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The holo whined, faceplate blank, and absently the guard petted his helm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would’ve been a crime to let him get pulverized,” said Knock Out, letting sleaze drip into it like hot oil. “I liked the look of him. I kept him. One of these solar cycles I’ll make a mint off him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the smoke-stained window Breakdown’s reflection stared ahead, and to a stranger he might’ve seemed vacantly calm--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--but Knock Out felt the unease simmering in him, for Breakdown never stood so stiff and silent. In his own body he felt Breakdown’s pistons clench, his fiber-optics tight as piano wire--</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That’s right, Breakdown. Be a good boy and keep your temper, or you’ll get us both recycled.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And the alley crackled with charge, the damp air tasting faintly of copper. The light above their heads hissed, letting off a puff of acrid smoke.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The guard grunted, going for a half-rusted scanner. “Whatever you want, Doc.” His lips twisted as he stood, pulling away from the holo; feebly the intellectual-caste reached for him, groping at the air. “Weapons check. You first, shiny.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This he’d endured a hundred times, in occupied Vos and in Kaon. Knock Out let the beam sweep over him, barely flinching at the tingle. With a calm he didn’t quite feel he checked his talons, holding up one hand, then the other, against the glow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The guard shrugged, and gestured for Knock Out to step aside. “Now the big one. Get your fender where I can see you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’d known this was coming; yet Breakdown stood a little straighter, and in Knock Out’s hand the lead buzzed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You hear me?” The guard snapped his fingers, rolling his optics. “He deaf?”</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>And indeed Breakdown had frozen, and Knock Out glanced back at him. Half-illuminated by the acid glow, he blotted out the dark--and Zeta Prime’s finest guards would’ve been hard-pressed to stand so still--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s chock full of trade secrets,” said Knock Out, with world-weary disdain. “Straight from Shockwave’s--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t give a scrap if he’s got the Allspark rammed up his tailpipe.” The guard’s wings flicked. He tapped the scanner, fingers moving out of time, and eyed Breakdown appraisingly. “He gets a scan or I search him the hard way. And if I’ve got to feel up some greasy warframe, </span>
  <em>
    <span>doctor</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I might not be in a gentle mood.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown shifted his weight. In the crisp silence it was thunderous.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was no way around it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out twitched the lead, and the collar tightened over Breakdown’s voicebox, jarring a low crackle of static. “Look lively, big boy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Big boy</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It’d been affectionate. Teasing. Above all, </span>
  <em>
    <span>private</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For an instant he thought Breakdown might balk. His lips moved, and he tilted his head back and forth with a scarcely-audible squeak, and Knock Out watched with unease in his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The lead prickled in his damp palm. Another jerk on the collar, and Breakdown might be on his knees, pauldron-lights flashing as the current danced on his armor, crying out in a low gurgle--</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>If you think I won’t shock you, my darling dear conjunx--</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>--</span>
  <em>
    <span>you’re unfortunately probably right.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I said,” he rasped, his voice as sharp as a jolt of electricity, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>move it</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown’s optics locked on his. He dropped, with a resounding grunt, to one knee, and glistening oil splashed up over his armor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good boy,” purred Knock Out, cold in the sultry air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown inclined his head, staring fiercely at the oil-slicked street. Even at arm’s length he radiated heat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Took you a cycle, didn’t it?” He half-meant it.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>This was your idea, Breakdown, you stubborn ass-gasket</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he snarled in the privacy of his own mind, </span>
  <em>
    <span>and if you get us both blown to scrap because you can’t take the heat--</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown knew him well enough to hear the unspoken. He saw Breakdown’s jaw tense, saw him swallow back a retort or an apology--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The whir of the scanner saved them. The beam lingered on Breakdown’s chestplate, on the fresh brand seared into the metal; the raw </span>
  <em>
    <span>sentio metallico</span>
  </em>
  <span> gleamed bright and beautiful, as if just kliks before Knock Out had raked his claws across Breakdown’s chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nice try. There’s something in there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The guard should, thought Knock Out in a cold flash, have sounded gleeful or triumphant--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Boredom was almost an insult.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, gee, you found a weapon.” He kept his voice caustic; it was no effort at all. “He </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> a weapon, brightspark.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The guard rubbed his temples. His irises were dilated, one optic brighter than the other. “He’s--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Harmless,” said Knock Out. “A sweet little cyber-kitten. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Thoroughly</span>
  </em>
  <span> declawed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And as if it were the most natural thing in the world, Knock Out stepped smartly forward and planted a heel on Breakdown’s back. Breakdown stiffened, and the rumble of his engine roared up Knock Out’s leg--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--but he took it, without looking up or buckling forward. Lazily Knock Out ground his heel down, digging into the fresh paint; every tiny scrape seemed amplified.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The guard’s optics widened; he leaped back, automatically, out of the pool of acid light.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out’s tire squeaked, leaving a damp streak over Breakdown’s finish. A surge of nasty pleasure squirmed in Knock Out’s tanks. As he bore down, and Breakdown bent further, unresisting, the warm glow in the pit of Knock Out’s stomach flared--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The warm </span>
  <em>
    <span>familiar</span>
  </em>
  <span> glow.</span>
</p><p><span>And this was all</span> <span>wrong. (Knock Out’s fingers curled, talons digging lightly-lightly into his palms, at the perversity of it.) Breakdown liked to play rough--but this was no game--</span></p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No backing out now, big boy. Do or die. Probably literally.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>His tire squealed as he drew his heel, slow and lascivious, down Breakdown’s broad back. Breakdown didn’t whimper, didn’t buck him off; and as Knock Out jabbed at him with a toe, a pulse of charge leapt between them. The shock raced up Knock Out’s fiber optics, washing cleanly through him. He might have gasped--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gingerly he lowered his foot to the ground. “See? Totally harmless.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The guard shook his head, one optic guttering out. He must’ve pinged a confederate, for with a rush of musty-smelling air the door whirred open. “Fine. You’re in. Now beat it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Through the door Knock Out caught a glimpse of spotlights in the dark, of a crowded and airless room. Someone was shouting numbers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the empty guardhouse the holo pressed, his mouth open in a silent stupid moan, against the glass. His fingers leaked through the window, the projection breaking into streaks of shapeless light reaching for the three of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a jerk on the lead Breakdown hauled himself up, his expression determinedly blank still. Grimy oil dribbled down his back, running along his seams.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out’s faceplate warmed for an instant. His voice came out crisp and clean. “Chop-chop. Haul that bulk a little faster.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From anyone else it’d have been fighting words. Breakdown’s knuckles squeaked, but his engine kicked up a gear, and he strode forward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The guard’s faceplate twisted, like a frustrated newspark’s. He reached out as Breakdown passed, and the clang of his open palm on Breakdown’s aft hung reverberating in the air.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, </span>
  </em>
  <span>bad </span>
  <em>
    <span>move, spare-parts.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Leave it,” said Knock Out, before Breakdown could whirl--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--and Breakdown’s shoulders twitched, his pauldron digging a gouge into the doorframe, but he obeyed. As he always obeyed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that, Knock Out thought, still a little dizzied, was power.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They’d hung around tent hospitals, asking dangerous questions. From the chop-shops of Polyhex Knock Out had bought still-bleeding T-cogs by the dozen. They’d long since grown inured to death.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still the stench of old brake fluid and cooling Energon hit him. With a little shudder he recalled the unnatural sterility of Vos’s surgical suites. So very far away and long ago now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tents and stretchers sprawled in all directions around them, half bazaar and half abattoir. The tile beneath their feet was wet; knowing what he’d find, Knock Out glanced down, and all the same he winced at the oil-Energon slurry dribbling into half-clogged drains.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the nearest table, arms severed at the elbow lay stacked, the largest on the bottom; twitching Energon lines trailed from gaps between misaligned plates, like parasites. In the adjoining tent, optics bobbed blind and dull in murky nutrient medium. Farther down, two Seekers were arguing, in sharp Praxian accents, over the half-dissected guts of a Mini-Con.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d have retched once, at the sound of dull saws on metal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Creepy,” murmured Knock Out, with a little thrill. “Shame about the smell. That’s never coming out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He waited for a klik--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--but Breakdown was silent, a looming presence behind him. He kept pace, slowing his stride, and glanced at everything and nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And still Knock Out felt the sickly warmth beneath his plating, the uneasy joy that cried out to be voiced. As if to confirm he’d read Breakdown right--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--though after so many stellar cycles they knew each other intimately. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Too</span>
  </em>
  <span> intimately.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The silent treatment? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Really</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown’s voice rumbled, more felt than heard. Without looking he knew Breakdown’s lips were barely moving. “I’m behaving myself, master.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d never been much for quiet introspection. “They call this </span>
  <em>
    <span>white mutiny</span>
  </em>
  <span> in the combat units, don’t they? Malicious compliance?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown grunted. “We’re being watched.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And indeed, as they passed, filthy street-surgeons elbowed their nurses, and mismatched optics followed them down blind alleys. They passed thrashing silhouettes behind plastic curtains, steam leaking around the edges; something bright as daylight blazed behind the curtain, with an electric crackle, and the body fell still and dropped from view. A kilometer on, a femme almost as big as Breakdown held her chestplate open, her stare vacant, while a three-eyed mech stripped away her wiring. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All around them, shanix changed hands, swapped for still-warm T-cogs and for freshly-drained Energon. A scrawny astro-caste handed over a plasma cannon--Autobot-made, Knock Out thought vaguely--and received an arm, so fresh it reeked still of burnt wiring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you look at that, Breakdown? It’s an--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Arms deal,” murmured Breakdown, but his smile was fleeting and uneasy. “Best if I keep my big mouth shut, master.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out bristled. “And leave me without an audience?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And in it, implicit: </span>
  <em>
    <span>You and I know what happened back there. I enjoyed it--and I’m damned sure you did, too, and I think that made you edgy.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>A thousand times Breakdown had called him </span>
  <em>
    <span>boss</span>
  </em>
  <span> or </span>
  <em>
    <span>sir</span>
  </em>
  <span>, his voice thick with desire. Sometimes grudging, sometimes gleeful, he’d followed Knock Out’s orders in the berth--</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You military-castes</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Knock Out had said once, teasingly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You all want to be kicked around, deep down.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And Breakdown had grinned and taken it--for they’d had an understanding. Equality, of a sort.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s get this over with,” growled Breakdown, and the tension in him crackled like wildfire, and on him Knock Out tasted ozone and hot oil.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>In the shadows beneath the auction stage, at a bar thrown together from pylons and half-melted rubble, a five-armed labor-caste was slinging Engex. Knock Out settled lightly onto a stool, tuning his commlink: bids flickered back and forth, and a heavily-processed voice read out lot after lot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And a mere arm’s length away, bots tromped up to the stage laden down with loose parts: a still-gesticulating arm here, a freshly-extracted pair of optics there. Any piece of a bot that could be sold--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--and every piece but the Spark </span>
  <em>
    <span>could</span>
  </em>
  <span> be sold, for the right price.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bartender’s voicebox had been ripped out, the hole welded over sloppily, and her audials had been drilled. Knock Out chose not to ask questions, and instead scrawled his drink order on a napkin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At his feet Breakdown knelt, a resigned and massive shape in the dark. He’d brooked no argument, and without speaking he’d offered his back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so Knock Out lounged uneasily, heels kicked up on Breakdown’s shoulders, feeling the soft thrum of his engine. Breakdown was nervy, spoiling for a fight--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Absently Knock Out petted his crest. His fingers left streaks of condensation and grit; everything he touched seemed covered in silicon dust, as if from a thousand surgeries on beds no one ever cleaned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown rumbled, wordlessly. It did not reassure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good boy,” said Knock Out, by way of apology. And then, playing into it: “You’re getting a treat tonight if you behave.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown closed his optics, knuckles squeaking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your pet’s badly-trained, isn’t it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out turned, slowly. It was never wise to broadcast that you’d been startled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the murky shadows beside the bar an Arachnicon leaned, rapping her fingertips on the acid-pitted metal countertop. Two legs supported her; the remaining six caressed weapons and counted shanix, in a flurry of tiny movements.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out tasted acid and raw metal. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Wonder how much those legs would go for</span>
  </em>
  <span>?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Buying or selling?” she added, flicking her drink order down the bar. “No--let me guess. You’re one of those repulsive little vultures who runs around scavenging battlefields. And </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span>--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her clawed pedipalp stroked Breakdown’s cheek with a tiny burr of metal on metal. Knock Out felt Breakdown’s joints lock, felt his temperature click upward--and his own engine picked up a notch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“--followed you home whining for Energon.” Her lacquered lips quirked. “Give it a treat if it begs. It’s the least you can do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’d planned for this, expected it. Yet Knock Out’s Spark flared molten into his throat--</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m behaving myself</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Breakdown had said, and motionless he knelt. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Let’s get this over with</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out crossed his ankles, his heel rubbing Breakdown’s shoulder--soothingly, he hoped. He slugged his drink in one, half-tasting skunked Engex, glancing round as if thoroughly unimpressed. “He’s straight off the front lines. One of Shockwave’s shiny little innovations. Revolutionizing warfare, et cetera, et cetera. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Real</span>
  </em>
  <span> top-of-the-line stuff.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She tilted her head, through the beam of dusty light filtering down from the stage, her expression almost quizzical. “One dealer to another, cherry boy--you were ripped off. Artillery aren’t going for much these days, even </span>
  <em>
    <span>intact</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Siege of Nova Cronum flooded the market for spare parts.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And again Knock Out bristled, on Breakdown’s behalf. He felt Breakdown’s silent presence, tasted resentment in it. Later they’d laugh it off, counting their profits--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Those </span>
  <em>
    <span>lovely </span>
  </em>
  <span>compound eyes make you blind? He’s got six inches of armor if he’s got a centimeter.” And Knock Out leaned forward, scratching a tender gouge down Breakdown’s shoulder. His finger shook, and a bead of bright Energon welled up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d have gasped, or cried out in pain; but Breakdown took it, stoically, and Knock Out felt a swell of prickly affection.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just </span>
  <em>
    <span>try</span>
  </em>
  <span> cracking that.” He’d said it to Breakdown so long ago and so far away. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You’re real heavy-duty</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It’d been half an insult then, half worship. Fighting words on Velocitron.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had bordered on cruel, and Breakdown had savored the sting then.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From the dark she scuttled forward, light on her claws. One claw scraped Breakdown’s belly, tugging experimentally at his plating. “Hmm. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> solid. Well-fed. Well-maintained. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Terribly</span>
  </em>
  <span> slow, I’m sure. Might get a few shanix for that plating, at least--if you peeled the shell off--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it was a compliment, of sorts--though Knock Out wondered, piqued, how much her legs would fetch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reached down, dabbing Breakdown’s warm Energon away with a stained cocktail napkin. “Please. He’s worth more to me than a few shanix.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Breakdown gave a damn, he did not react. His motor clicked, irritated, as the Arachnicon pulled away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Later he’d be furious. Later he’d seethe, crumpling pylons in his clever hands, and Knock Out would nuzzle his shoulder and call him brave--</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Assuming we don’t end up eaten like bolt-flies.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“My mistake.” She never lost her smug smile. “If he’s got </span>
  <em>
    <span>sentimental</span>
  </em>
  <span> value, of course. You can’t put a number on that, can you? More than--oh, say--eighteen tons of scrap--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sixteen,” said Knock Out dryly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Arachnicon raised her eyebrows, her smile sharpening. “My, my. The racer-class and his little army toy. I suppose they </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> take orders well.” She dropped lightly to one knee, meeting Breakdown’s optics. “Get your owner a drink, you outmoded hunk of junk. He’s really going to bat for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Audibly Breakdown’s dentae ground--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--but his pistons slammed to life, joints unlocking as one, and almost gently he lowered Knock Out’s feet to the ground. He drew himself up, shoulders squared and back stiff--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At that Knock Out felt a brutal surge of pride. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Armor that thick, nothing gets in or out</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Though from the furnace-bright glow in Breakdown’s optics, he was crackling inside with humiliation, and willing himself not to show it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How </span>
  <em>
    <span>strong</span>
  </em>
  <span>. How </span>
  <em>
    <span>delicious</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out tasted, sharper than the bite of adulterated Engex, the same acid desire. Breakdown </span>
  <em>
    <span>took</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>took</span>
  </em>
  <span>, drinking up pain like a bitter tonic, and no cooing bounty hunter would break him--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--for that was Knock Out’s job.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out smacked his aft as he turned away, in a flicker of inspiration, and felt Breakdown tense and grunt. A greater reaction by half than the Arachnicon had gotten, and Knock Out’s spark flared with victory.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pretty, isn’t he?” He meant it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not my type,” she said, a touch shortly. “But we’re all crossing caste lines these days, aren’t we?” Her optics narrowed. “I’m sure it’s a more </span>
  <em>
    <span>humane</span>
  </em>
  <span> life than the front lines. Three refills a day, and a nice warm spot to sleep. And with artillery becoming an endangered species--well, well. I’m a little jealous of him.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown was scrawling a drink order against the bar; yet his optics flickered over Knock Out, and his rocket launcher twitched minutely in its housing. Alert. Listening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>And</span>
  </em>
  <span> he’s delicious,” said Knock Out, riding the high. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span> like the taste of a healthy military-caste--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown’s optics widened, and Knock Out imagined the warmth rising in his cheeks--and Knock Out was not sorry.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Beautiful. You’re intoxicating when you’re flustered.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d said it aloud a thousand times--and Breakdown had laughed it off, gruff and sheepish at once. But here and now, in the shadow of the auction-stage, Breakdown could say nothing at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Spare me. We know you intellectual-castes frag them.” She shuddered. “So </span>
  <em>
    <span>greasy</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Barely two circuits in their processors, and they reek of gasoline.” Her expression hardened. “I only see ‘em in pieces--or about to be.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where d’you sell the parts?” said Knock Out, the momentary high dying (though the nervy tingle in his armor remained). “This isn’t my turf. I’m a bit of a nomad--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A dabbler.” The Arachnicon’s lips twitched. She picked a fleck of silicon from jet-black plating. “Y’know, you and your brute are my competition. If I tell you--” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Tell him</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” It was the first thing Breakdown had said in cycles. With a step like an earthquake he was at Knock Out’s shoulder, so still and yet so ready to strike. As if ready to spill all his pent-up anger, hot as molten iron, over them all. And that was endearing, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He really is obedient. That’s no act.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Easy there, boy.” Knock Out snapped his fingers, officiously. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Arachnicon fell back; she’d moved, too, to strike. “You’re lucky I’ve sold all my stock for today. Harvested ‘em all myself. Bots </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> Cons.” She chuckled, a harsh little sound. She’d been no physician, Knock Out knew, with steel certainty. “This is Soundblaster’s turf. If you want to auction, he’s got his goons over that way--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pointed, lightly, into the roiling depths of the market.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’re you two selling? I don’t see the goods--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it was now or never, and Knock Out leaned with a practiced smirk away from the bar. He smacked Breakdown’s aft, lightly, with a clang that resounded round the claustrophobic shadows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’d you say the price was for sixteen tons of top-notch craftsmanship?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And with dentae gritted, in frank humiliation, Breakdown lowered his head and stared at nothing at all.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They were no innocents, and they knew the dirty little ways of the world. An intellectual-caste could quite easily buy a laborer’s service, for a vorn-long contract. And so easily that contract might be </span>
  <em>
    <span>extended</span>
  </em>
  <span>, through a dozen clever tricks--</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Slave</span>
  </em>
  <span> was an ugly word. Knock Out so despised ugly words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then, in the crumbling streets of nameless cities, in a wretched little war, sometimes only a foul word would do.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Breakdown would’ve been valuable, he supposed, in the mineshafts of Cybertron or the foundries of Polyhex.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>So big</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he’d cooed a million times, nestled in Breakdown’s arms. </span>
  <em>
    <span>So strong.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>In the illegal prizefights of Lower Iacon Breakdown had smashed a thousand jaws, laughing. Every blow, every split lip or scraped cheekbone, seemed to spur him on. He fought like a volcanic eruption: explosive, heavy, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>deceptively</span>
  </em>
  <span> slow. Unstoppable as the flow of lava. Yes, he’d have done well in the gladiatorial pits of Kaon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once or twice Knock Out had voiced the thought, and Breakdown had shuddered and rolled his eyes. “Nobody’s gonna put a brand on my aft. They can buy my cold dead hull, but they aren’t taking me alive--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm.” Knock Out had wrapped an arm round his belly, another round his chest, and nuzzled his shoulder from behind. His hands did not meet. “You could make us a fortune, selling yourself to the Pits--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You buying?” Breakdown had growled, but he’d relaxed into Knock Out’s arms, his engine purring. They’d lain in the sun filtering through their habsuite’s dingy window, tangled in each other’s limbs, for joors.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe I am,” Knock Out had retorted. “A hundred shanix for your pretty optics. Five hundred for that lovely mouth.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How much for a kiss?” Breakdown had tilted his head back, his burnt-copper faceplate gleaming sweetly in the afternoon sunlight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out had rubbed his claws together, in mock calculation. “Funny thing. I think I pulled my paychip out last time I waxed. Can’t seem to find it anywhere. I’ll just have to--” And he leaned in, and savored Breakdown: the warmth of him, the raw power, the sweet guileless gaze. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Steal</span>
  </em>
  <span> a kiss.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And they’d not discussed the Pits again, for a hundred winters and a hundred springs, until the cold leaked through their window and they stood, incandescent with rage, at odds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown had bellowed, in that voice like an earthquake, “We need money, huh? </span>
  <em>
    <span>This</span>
  </em>
  <span> is money.” And he’d slapped his chest, and it’d rung like a bell. “Break me down, Knock Out, and there’s money in my pistons and my cables--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Knock Out had said, in a voice sharp as ice, “going to the Pits.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s all I’m good for,” he’d snarled, smacking his bicep. “Look at this. We’ve got all the cash we need right here. I break a couple heads, we’re outta debt--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Breakdown</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he’d said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Breakdown had always listened to that tone. He’d fallen silent, panting, dumping steam. The windows had fogged up then, and the air had tasted of hot grease and hotter metal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out had stepped forward, stroking Breakdown’s bicep, feeling the fresh fingertip-dents. He’d clucked his synth, nuzzling the searing metal. “You will </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> break my toys. I like you in one piece.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look at this scrap heap.” Breakdown’s tone had been hoarse. Miserable. Knock Out’s spark had ached like a bad tooth. “You deserve better ‘n this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You aren’t wrong,” Knock Out had murmured into Breakdown’s chest, and the thick plating had clattered with Breakdown’s nasty laugh. “And </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> deserve a habsuite you can stand up straight in, but them’s the breaks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’d settled onto the berth, and softly-softly he’d stroked Breakdown’s sturdy thighs, and planted kisses light as a warm breeze on his plating. He’d raked a talon down the metal, just enough to sting, the light buzz making both of them vent sharply. “Mine,” he’d purred.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Knock Out--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mute up.” He’d dug deeper, enough to hurt. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>This</span>
  </em>
  <span> is mine. And this--” He’d kissed Breakdown’s chestplate. “--is mine. And if I sold you to the pits I’d be </span>
  <em>
    <span>loaded</span>
  </em>
  <span>, which--the way I figure it--makes me the richest ‘bot in Iacon right now--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown had groaned, just a little, his thighs spreading with a clunk. “‘M still angry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oo, I’m terrified.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’d clung together, moving as one. He’d pinned Breakdown to the berth and ravaged him slowly, gently-gently, with exquisite cruelty, and all Breakdown’s anger and all his pent-up frustration had leaked from his shaking frame into the warm berth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And in the crackling echo of Breakdown’s overload, with his raw yells still echoing, they’d huddled together and talked business. As a team now.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yes, Breakdown </span>
  <em>
    <span>needed</span>
  </em>
  <span> a firm hand, craved a sharp tongue--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was a </span>
  <em>
    <span>natural</span>
  </em>
  <span> for the pits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lucky for you,” Knock Out had breathed into his audial that night, “I’m a </span>
  <em>
    <span>big</span>
  </em>
  <span> believer in freedom.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’d wondered often if it </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> a quirk of military-castes’ coding--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--or if Breakdown got a dark thrill out of replaying the thousand small indignities in the life of light artillery.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eyes on the prize, </span>
  <em>
    <span>sir</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” said Breakdown, and Knock Out stirred, unwillingly, from reverie. “Soundblaster’s got guys everywhere.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Knock Out shook himself. He’d been staring at Breakdown, he realized, for the last cycle. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Of course, I could stare at you all day, big guy.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Smack me if I get out of line, master,” Breakdown rumbled, and Knock Out searched his tone for a scrap of irony.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Master</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It sounded like berth-talk. Here, amid smoke- and Energon-stained tile and lean-to stalls hawking still-wet organs, it sounded sickening. Deliciously obscene.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They pushed through the crowd, Breakdown scanning for familiar faces. The crowds of Iacon had parted around him--for his size alone--but with the shock collar snug around his throat, he was invisible, and street-surgeons jostled him as they passed. Knock Out grimaced, chewing his lower lip.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That’s mine</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the shadows between stalls he found Breakdown’s hand. His squeeze was tentative: </span>
  <em>
    <span>How’re you holding up, pretty thing? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Breakdown did not squeeze back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So it was Breakdown’s set shoulders, his tight frown, that Knock Out watched as they stepped out of the warren of stalls and tents. At once ten gazes snapped to them: a slick black mech lounging on a salvaged throne, and around him a flock of patchwork scientific-castes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soundblaster, then. An unfamiliar face. He’d never bothered to learn them all.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Setpiece number three. Let’s go.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Soundblaster held court over a physician’s suite, deconstructed: here a rusted-out industrial scale, there an examination table, scattered in no clear order. The tile was cleaner here, as if freshly hosed down. Breakdown dropped heavily to one knee, with a short sharp tug on the lead. In the stark pool of light he was beautiful, Knock Out decided.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Shame what I’m about to do.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve got a warframe I’d like to unload. Any takers?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soundblaster’s laugh was a squawk of static. The scientific-castes rustled and chirruped, biolights flashing arrhythmically. “Third one I’ve seen tonight. Most of ‘em were halfway to the smelter. Lockdown brought me twenty tons of scrap to dispose of--and it was still alive and kicking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His voice was unnaturally flat, his voiceprint stripped to the bare essentials. “Planning to do a little better than that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hope that visor’s UV-shielded,” drawled Knock Out, in the tones of a cosmetic surgeon, “because you’re going to be dazzled.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few mechanical laughs. The nearest scientific-caste popped open a panel in his thigh, disgorging an Autobot-issue medical kit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soundblaster gestured, and the light sharpened, picking out Breakdown’s seams and dents. “Give him the physical. See if he’s a lemon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And automatically Knock Out stepped forward. Two scientific-castes flanked him, in mute uison.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You never let the seller do the inspection,” crackled Soundblaster. “Standard procedure.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A wingless Seeker squatted by Breakdown’s side, swatting his aft. One talon he ran down Breakdown’s hip seam, finding the join behind his knee; Breakdown twitched, his neck cables tightening with a clank. He slammed a hand against the tile, steadying himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Pellucidum’s First Reflex</span>
  </em>
  <span>. A standard test for stripped fiber-optics and blown neural net.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s conscious,” said Knock Out, nettled. “Marginally. Wasn’t much up there to start with.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown had made the identical joke a hundred times; from Knock Out’s lips it was flippantly vicious. He watched--but Breakdown did not flinch.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Have to wonder what’s going through his processor. Beyond that I’m a malfunction and a glitch and he’s going to crush me into a neat little cube when we blow this joint.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s what they all say,” barked Soundblaster, snapping his fingers. Outside the pool of light he was a clicking insectile figure, sprawled like a king. “Full reflex test.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown’s optics dimmed as the scientific-castes held a blazing lamp to his faceplate. Sickeningly gently they felt around his shoulder, strumming the cables, and Breakdown’s hand curled with a snap into a fist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And all around them business went on as usual. Soundblaster glanced away, his visor flickering with binarized lot numbers; the bids washed in, a wave of staticky comms on the public lines. The sheer number of them tingled, fizzing on Knock Out’s glossa.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The cheapness smarted: a T-cog for a crate of guns, a stripped chassis for a thousand shanix. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Breakdown’s luxury goods. A million shanix and a full armory at </span>
  </em>
  <span>least.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Check his T-cog.” Soundblaster’s tone was insultingly bored.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without waiting for an order Breakdown transformed. From his kneeling posture it was inelegant, unbalanced, and Knock Out caught the dull </span>
  <em>
    <span>click</span>
  </em>
  <span> as his chest reconfigured--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--but then, he’d been listening for it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soundblaster disgorged a trill, then a flutter of beeps. The nearest scientific-caste kicked Breakdown’s undercarriage, with lazy imprecision. Breakdown twitched, but held his form, and Knock Out felt himself relax fractionally.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on now,” tried Knock Out. “Allow me--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get him back in root mode.” And to Knock Out, Soundblaster droned, “He’s well-maintained enough. Nice quiet joints. Hefty, for a front-liner--get a weight on him--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Breakdown transformed again, his optics scorching, the scientific-castes yanked the leash from Knock Out’s hand. (Knock Out yelped, and sucked his fingertips: it had discharged in his grip.) With a flurry of yanks they hauled Breakdown to the scale; he bent low, choking a little under the collar.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Seventeen and a half.” The wingless Seeker chirruped. He had, Knock Out noted, mismatched hands. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not even a real physician. The cheek.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Mostly armor and frame, I’d guess. Big cables. Big everything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll trim some of that down,” drawled Soundblaster. “Maybe his little friend can do the honors. No point feeding ‘em that well in a shortage. Excess all goes to the smelter. He’ll strip to to--oh--fifteen, maybe fifteen and a half usable--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown’s faceplate glowed, the air around it shimmering, with dull anger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You ever stripped down a warframe, Doctor?” Soundblaster’s visor was impassive.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Here it was: the crux of the matter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out felt all optics on him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not my favorite kind of audience, but it’ll do.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Never let ‘em rumble you. You’re the Iacon-trained surgeon. Practically licensed. They’re the patients. And if it comes down to that, you’ve got sixteen--or seventeen--tons of brute at your back.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have I </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” His plating smoothed back; he was beautiful under humming surgical lights, as Breakdown was beautiful. “Could do it in my sleep. Could do it in a </span>
  <em>
    <span>coma</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Not that it’s easy, Primus knows--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get him on the table,” said Soundblaster, cutting him off. He rubbed two fingers together, in the universal medic’s gesture. From him it was vulgar, unfunny. “Check the ports.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown’s joints ground, with a low crunch; he tightened, as if readying himself to move.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Stay still, Breakdown. Stay quiet.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Though it had been a commendable effort, for rowdy Breakdown to stay so quiet and so humiliated--</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Big and strong and seething. The butt of every joke.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“He can walk,” said Knock Out, a cycle too late, but no one was listening. The lead flicked, discharging sparks with a tiny clap, and Breakdown hit the tile with a thunk. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fifteen and a half tons of usable parts</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Breakdown </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span>: thick cables and sturdy pistons, roaring engine and impenetrable armor, fiber optic and gear and transmission fluid.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That’s what big strong boys are made of</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Strip ‘em down and they’re just parts</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown’s fans were wheezing; his fingers twitched, the last of the shock dissipating. Still, clumsily, he moved to rise. Knock Out longed to offer him a hand--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The scientific-castes closed in on him. It took six to lift him, their hydraulics creaking, and wrestle him limply onto the bed. Two more yanked his legs apart, with no more dignity than Knock Out might grant a cadaver. The cuffs did not quite fit him; Breakdown gritted his dentae, lips moving in what was surely a curse, as the wingless Seeker slammed the cuff down on his forearm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Overkill, really. He won’t move,” said Knock Out, a little desperately. Swallowing back a rush of pique and fear--and a saucy little crackle of current in his belly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For Breakdown, immobilized and straining not to yell, </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> a delicious sight.</span>
</p><p><em><span>Damn my id.</span></em> <em><span>That little quack Rung would have a field day.</span></em></p><p>
  <span>“Lift his hips up.” Soundblaster might’ve been directing ditch diggers, so bored was his processed-flat voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown raised his head, just enough, squinting round the bulk of his chest. His optics widened in mute horror; he seemed about to roar a threat, and to bite it back just in time--or perhaps he’d not regained full control after the shock.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>This was your idea, Breakdown,</span>
  </em>
  <span> thought Knock Out weakly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Brave silly boy.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown, who had dreaded even military physicals--Breakdown, sprawled helpless on a medical berth--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Knock Out’s own armor warmed in sympathy. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’d have screamed. I still might scream.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Two sets of hands slipped under Breakdown’s hips, hauling him up from the table. Breakdown’s back arched, his spare tire squeaking along the table; his hand clutched at nothing. Sparks fizzed and popped in the air around him, his anxiety palpable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“May I?” said Knock Out, not waiting for an answer from Soundblaster. He stepped up to the table, jaunty as an attending surgeon on his first case of the day, and reached for Breakdown’s shoulder--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not his hand, though Breakdown’s hand twitched against Knock Out’s thigh. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Keep that clinical distance</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His finger probed beneath the shock collar, loosening it. There’d been superficial damage to the metal, the black paint scorched and cracking; Knock Out’s vents flared open with a low hiss. “That’ll cost extra. Wear and tear.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Between Breakdown’s thighs, a plate retracted with a loud snap. His dentae clenched, optics aglow with the rage of exposure--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well-maintained. Slight wear on the interface port.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were lying in a back-alley clinic, where organs were bought and sold, thought Knock Out dizzily. Nine unlicensed street-doctors were crowding around Breakdown’s interface port.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Resaleable?” droned Soundblaster.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Should be.” And then a soft intake of air, and a tiny </span>
  <em>
    <span>pop</span>
  </em>
  <span>, as of a finger into a tight slit. “He’s lubricating well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A surge of bitter cold washed through Knock Out, and the hot tingle in his belly squirmed--and squirmed, too, at the </span>
  <em>
    <span>liquid</span>
  </em>
  <span> sounds at the edge of hearing. A talon scraping round an opening, probing experimentally.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown’s cables went tight, and he groaned, a low defiant sound.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s awfully small,” said one, in a businesslike way. “Relative to the body.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’ll stretch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Check his exhaust,” said another. “That’ll give you a hint about the condition of the organs--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>They’re fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” snapped Knock Out. “I’ll saw him open myself if you like.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The wingless Seeker held his finger up, gleaming with turquoise lubricant. It was the </span>
  <em>
    <span>dryness</span>
  </em>
  <span> of the gesture, thought Knock Out, that really stung. He’d have thrust his fingers in and out, lustily, working up a charge--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For they’d played this game, too. Funny to think of it as a game. So much about their predicament was funny.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Way ahead of you.” And another mech plunged a hand between Breakdown’s thighs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had to know. Nibbling his lip, his armor alight with nervous energy, Knock Out edged round the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown’s jack-plate was retracted, soft silver mesh and vermilion red silicone exposed to the humid air. His jack, empty, looked comically small: a featureless vertical slit, almost invisible even under the bleaching glare of the surgical lights. A translucent trickle of lubricant ran down to the base of the plate, puddling there. Set deep into the springy mesh, coppery biolights winked lazily, illuminating chevrons around Breakdown’s jack. He’d licked those chevrons, drawn sharp talons across them--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like something out of a medical textbook, thought Knock Out. More </span>
  <em>
    <span>parts</span>
  </em>
  <span> than mech.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Every few kliks, a blue spark flickered lazily between mesh and thigh-plate. Even from the back of the jostling pack, Knock Out could feel the warmth and smell the heating metal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A scrap of half-remembered trivia floated through Knock Out’s processor: </span>
  <em>
    <span>physical arousal is a normal response to stimulation of the interface port or, rarely, exhaust port</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Below, the nearest scientific-caste worked two fingers vigorously in Breakdown’s exhaust port, feeling round the lip. An examination Knock Out had done a hundred times.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He’d never pass muster at the Science Academy. Lousy technique. Breakdown’s hands are four times the size and he’d do better.</span>
  </em>
  <span> An inane thought. He hung on to it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Functional,” he reported, fingers scissoring still. “Chemical profile nearly normal. Heavy on the copper.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Leave it,” said Knock Out, with a little gasp as another spark flared. “Unless you’re planning to yank his whole fuel tank out his exhaust.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The heat was trickling through him now, spreading. All night he’d been uncomfortably aware--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown’s hands relaxed at his sides as the mech pulled out. At this angle his face was hidden behind flexed knees and enormous breastplate. Oddly anonymous. An oversized training model.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get an Energon sample,” droned Soundblaster. “And a diagnostic--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out’s motor caught, with a click Soundblaster might’ve heard. </span>
  <em>
    <span>If they scan him--</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Scanner’s down, sir,” volunteered the maimed Seeker. “Swindle sold us damaged goods. We’ll have to use an insertable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown groaned, low as iron grinding on iron. Knock Out’s spark flared into his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Great</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he imagined Breakdown muttering. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Inserted where?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Check his mouth,” said one of the assistants, and they reshuffled with an acrid wisp of smoke and a cackle of ill-maintained motors. “See if the dentae are any good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“His cables--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out caught the barely-audible </span>
  <em>
    <span>snick</span>
  </em>
  <span> of Breakdown opening his mouth, obediently, and the click of picks on perfect dentae. Breakdown had a taste for sweets, he remembered suddenly, and had groused when Knock Out threatened to drill his dentae--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From the Autobot medical kit the Seeker, wing-joints twitching and rolling in their sockets, pulled a gleaming steel probe. Behind it trailed a humming cable, leading to a diagnostic scanner several vorns outdated. Knock Out might’ve scoffed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>mind</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he said instead, lightly. “I’ll just run that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a soft squelch the Seeker emptied a tube of synthlube onto the probe. “Better you than me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The probe was dry in Knock Out’s damp palm, and oddly chilly. For a klik he shuttered his optics, struggling to recall his radiography rotation--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“--you’re gonna need it someday,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Breakdown had growled, elbow-deep in his latest wiring project. “Dumb it down for me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The thing that goes </span>
  <em>
    <span>beep</span>
  </em>
  <span> goes up your jack and...uh…” He’d thought for a cycle. “Goes </span>
  <em>
    <span>beep</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown had snorted, chucking his shoulder. “Not that dumb.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Too bad for you, then. That’s what I remember.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d loved seeing Breakdown working with tools, confident and laid-back. He’d loved Breakdown’s careful hands--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Damn. Should’ve paid more attention.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He leaned in, smelling the minerally tang of lubricant, and slid a finger into Breakdown’s slit with a quiet </span>
  <em>
    <span>pop</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “Sorry, big guy,” Knock Out muttered under his breath. “I’ll buy you an Energon goodie if you behave.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Easy did it. His hands shook still, his talon scritching over the tight nubby metal. Breakdown’s jack was warming, vibrating with the low rumble of his engine; they might’ve been sprawled in their berth in Iacon, playing with a new toy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Turn up the voltage,” said someone behind him. “Armor like that, it’ll never get through to the body cavity otherwise--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Back off, amateur-hour,” spat Knock Out, rubbing Breakdown’s mesh, stroking his thighs. Breakdown was tense as piano wire, his cables clenched. “Ever tried to sell a scorched jack? I guarantee you, it’s not easy--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He slid in a second finger, into that sweet mesh. His fingers pulsed with charge, and his synth caught, his other hand curled a little tighter round the probe.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>If I had a license, I’d lose it for this</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a simple procedure. Pop the probe into the jack. Spin it round, catching inevitably on the ribbed interior--but never mind that, there were forty more patients to see, and so little time--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stared at powerful thighs and well-oiled mesh, willing himself to believe it was anyone else, an anatomy dummy--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Breakdown’s engine tasted familiar on the air, and Knock Out’s chemical receptors tingled at the tanginess of his lubricant.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Scrap.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Gently, he worked lubricant-slick fingers free. Gently he pushed the probe inside--and Breakdown tightened, hips rising fractionally from the berth, but spread his legs a little wider.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, you kinky malfunction. Getting charged up for anything I shove in there.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>This was so </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Knock Out bit his lip again, harder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dentae are good,” yapped someone behind him. “Have the doc yank the lot--they’ll sell--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Again Breakdown groaned, a resigned rusty sound--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--and for the first time it occurred to Knock Out that Breakdown dissolved into grunts and gasps in the berth. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Too disciplined to speak, army boy, or too charged-up</span>
  </em>
  <span>?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was no helping it. With medical precision he worked the probe, in and out; Breakdown’s jack squeaked over the metal, leaving a trail of glowing lubricant. It was slippery--too slippery--and for an instant he lost control, and the probe jerked upward, and hit an old familiar diode.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Breakdown’s thighs clenched, and he vented warm air, and Knock Out was squatting between his sprawled legs and fragging him with a radio-probe--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--and this had been </span>
  <em>
    <span>Breakdown’s idea</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He clung to that.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I hope you’re getting the treat of your life, you masochist</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Current hummed through the probe, and radiation warmed Knock Out’s faceplate. Breakdown bucked against it, just a little, his motor growling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out hissed, flicking a fingertip against the closest diode. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Quiet</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” A spark stung his talon, and again he almost dropped the probe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cables are well-developed,” said some cold voice. “We’re getting an image on the scanner--barely--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out worked the probe, plunging it in and out, shivering at the zing of stretching mesh and the squelch of fresh lubricant. In the privacy of their berth he’d have been talking, cracking jokes, slurping lubricant from hs fingers--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the shadow of his conjunx’s supine body, kneeling on filthy tile in a stark steamy place, Knock Out wondered why these things always happened to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s saleable,” said the Seeker at last, and Knock Out spat, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>oh, goody</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He helped Breakdown from the medical table, slinging a powerful arm round his shoulder. “Can you walk?” he murmured, more solicitously than he’d meant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown’s faceplate was soaked with condensate, his optics half-shuttered. He seemed to buckle beneath his own weight. “I’m fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No </span>
  <em>
    <span>sir</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Knock Out noted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Away from Soundblaster’s clinic they staggered, into the press of the crowd. “Don’t touch the merchandise,” Knock Out snarled at gawkers--such was the acid in his tone that they retreated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown followed him blindly, trustingly. Slumped against him. He was almost feverish, plating ablaze with charge--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the lee of the auction stage they settled against the bar. Gently Knock Out propped Breakdown up, in the anonymous darkness; with a relieved grunt Breakdown switched off his indicators.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“First-time organ donor?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were not alone at the bar. The largest Seeker Knock Out had seen outside Vos spun on his stool, lime-green biolights blazing. “Looks like he just went three rounds with Liege Maximo.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you’re feeling softhearted,” said Knock Out, too tetchy to be charming, “buy me a Deltan Sunrise. Or whatever brake-fluid they sling here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cheers, brother.” The Seeker grinned; he’d set emerald LEDs into his dentae, and his glossa was black and jointed. A more elegant custom-make than Soundblaster’s mechs, to be sure--but still Knock Out’s tanks turned.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Ugly. It’s all Pit-ugly.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>With a shaky groan he settled onto his stool. “He’ll live. Until I chop him up for the highest bidder, I guess.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Damn shame. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Damn</span>
  </em>
  <span> shame.” The Seeker eyed Breakdown up and down, squinting through the darkness, whistling. “Fine-looking mech. Friend of yours?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out jerked his head, indifferently. No slick story came to mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Depends if he’s still speaking to me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He teetered on the stool. The drink arrived, in a glass that might’ve been washed once, before the war. “I quit drinking in medical school. Had my intake regulator chip welded.” Breakdown had done it, with firm and clever hands. “Haven’t been so much as tipsy since. Let alone blotto, smashed, or purging my tanks into the biohazard bin. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Terrible</span>
  </em>
  <span> idea. Apparently any quack can be a doctor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Give yourself more credit.” Breakdown was on his feet, unsteadily. “Takes quick hands and a little bit of sociopathy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Breakdown</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” It came out in a weak moan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not the worst physical I’ve ever had. Got a couple from Shockwave--” Breakdown’s laugh was easy, rolling. He settled onto the stool with a massive creak. “I’d put that at a four outta ten, with ten being just dropping me straight into the smelter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Had Knock Out been standing, the surge of affection would’ve knocked him on his fender. “That’s--ah--reassuring,” he said, meaning, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I love you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“You get used to it.” The Seeker grinned his emerald grin. “Stratosfear.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t care,” said Breakdown, but warmly. “I’m nobody.” And then, at Knock Out: “Remind me to hammer you flat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And there it was: the cheerful rage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t,” said Knock Out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They might’ve been in any other bar, in any other time or place. Still he smelled Breakdown’s scorched paint, and tasted the crackle of not-quite-faded arousal. Still the bids rolled like constant thunder over the public commsline.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Lot 5940.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“We could blow this joint,” said Knock Out. “Make a run for the border with Praxus.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wouldn’t do that,” said Stratosfear, before Breakdown could reply. “Soundblaster’s going to keep a close watch on a pretty thing like him. He’s your pet? Your slave?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was casual, and all the more shocking for it. Everything about Stratosfear was casual.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your conjunx,” said Stratosfear, and his grin widened in his jet-black faceplate. “Or your amica. I don’t care enough to tell which.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He drained his own glass, leaving a greasy blue stain on his lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s say </span>
  <em>
    <span>victim</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” said Breakdown.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And what relief, that Breakdown was </span>
  <em>
    <span>talking</span>
  </em>
  <span> again. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tell me I’m a monster. Compare me unfavorably to Shockwave. Call me </span>
  </em>
  <span>dingy</span>
  <em>
    <span>. But don’t go quiet on me, Breakdown.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“What have we learned today?” he said instead, sipping his drink.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I gotta lay off the Energon.” It was flippant; Breakdown was often, and aggressively, flippant. “If I get much fatter, Doc here’s gonna sell me to the Pits.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out nearly choked on his Engex. “Wrong answer, but creative.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Breakdown’s lovely optics glowed like the depths of a magma seam. “I can take just about any kinda scrap. Doesn’t bother me at all.” His laugh was tectonic plates shifting; he tapped his chest. “Nothing gets through this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yet he’d been disoriented, gasping--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re Cons, huh?” Stratosfear slung a long leg over the other. He cut off Knock Out’s sharp reply. “Figures. You’re all crazy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their gazes pinned him like laser sights.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You talk about equality,” rasped Stratosfear, “but then you sign on for a big dose of tyranny. Like you don’t know what to do with a little bit of freedom. You’re just too used to being kicked in the head.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Onstage, someone was hawking holomatter projectors. Knock Out listened for a klik, letting it pass through his audials and understanding none of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ideas like that, you could take over from Megatron.” Breakdown’s faceplate was bright still with condensate. He was, thought Knock Out, a real heartbreaker when he was angry (and he was often angry of late).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t blow a gasket, buddy,” chuckled Stratosfear. “I see how you look at </span>
  <em>
    <span>Doc</span>
  </em>
  <span> there. You think you’re so lucky, bagging such a catch--he’s out of your league, and he </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> it, too--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown snarled warningly, his motor kicking up a notch. “Easy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s riling you up, Breakdown.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>And what a show he’s going to get.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t need to </span>
  <em>
    <span>play</span>
  </em>
  <span> master and servant,” said Stratosfear with an electric glitter of dentae. “You boys aren’t playing. You’re the real thing, like it or not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown stood, slamming his hand down on the bar. If the bartender noticed, she gave no sign, drifting down into the shadows as she polished a filthy glass. “Hey, I’ve been </span>
  <em>
    <span>real</span>
  </em>
  <span> patient with you, Dr. Rung, but you can cram that psycho-stuff up your--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Breakdown</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Knock Out’s voice was quiet; it cut through Breakdown’s like a scalpel.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A real shame to cut him off</span>
  </em>
  <span>--but they could not risk drawing more attention. Not after they’d come this far.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And with a disgusted huff Breakdown dropped onto the stool. After a cycle he forced a laugh, lacing his fingers. “You want something, mod-job?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do, at that.” Stratosfear eyed him with a connoisseur’s gaze, a gaze Knock Out had seen on his own reflection countless times. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Appraising</span>
  </em>
  <span> him. “I’ve been watching you since you got in. You’re hard to miss, the both of you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They leaned together, Breakdown still unsteady. Breakdown’s shoulders drew together, and his voicebox clicked; Knock Out preened, just a little.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Especially the hothead. Showing a little of the </span>
  <em>
    <span>real </span>
  </em>
  <span>you there. I like it--” Stratosfear leered. “Even if </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> likes you meek.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As one they sputtered with outrage. “You don’t know squat about the Doc,” snarled Breakdown, while Knock Out settled for, “butt out, will you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How nice, to be on the same wavelength again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And if it were up to me,” drawled Stratosfear, “boys like you wouldn’t be sold off for parts. </span>
  <em>
    <span>C’est sera, sera.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown shuddered; Knock Out slipped an arm around his shoulders, and Breakdown shrugged it off without comment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But since it ain’t up to me--” He spread long fingers. “Least I can do is offer you a little opportunity before they carve you up. Now, being just a poor soul, I can’t pay transplant prices--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You sure about that?” muttered Breakdown, eyeing his emerald smirk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I </span>
  <em>
    <span>can</span>
  </em>
  <span> rent.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out caught his drift first, and hissed. “You’ve got bearings.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything</span>
  </em>
  <span>’s for sale,” purred Stratosfear, “I guess you won’t mind--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown’s expression changed, almost imperceptibly. He glanced down at Knock Out. At his own hands, limp on the bar. “Uh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No pressure.” Stratosfear leaned back, optics glinting. “No paint off my wings. Thought I’d offer, seeing as you </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> in such desperate straits.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have to,” said Knock Out through clenched dentae. In the space of one night Breakdown had been through a vorn of indignities.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown tilted his head, as if thinking. Sized Stratosfear up. “You good for fifteen thousand shanix?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a cycle Knock Out was speechless, and a cycle was long enough.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ten,” said Stratosfear languidly. “I’ll throw in some guns. Just for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out moved to speak; Breakdown stilled him with a hand, warm and steady, to his lower back. In the smoky dark his expression was almost calculating. “Twenty, since I’m such a catch. And the guns.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sprawled against the bar, his smile a challenge. Though his hands still trembled, he flicked first one wheel, then the other, his shoulders buzzing. Showing off.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You </span>
  </em>
  <span>are</span>
  <em>
    <span> still overcharged, you swaggering brat.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out might’ve mounted him then.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sold,” said Stratosfear, lazily patting Breakdown’s knee. “I like a temper.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown stiffened, but allowed it. “You gonna ask his permission?” He gestured to Knock Out, his optics winningly guileless.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What a charmer.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please.” Knock Out leaned into Breakdown’s arms, his engine purring, reveling in the sharp metallic smell of him. Equals, for the moment. “He can’t afford to frag me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I could stop him</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Could tell him anger makes him a blind reckless idiot.</span>
  </em>
  <span> The lead crackled in Knock Out’s hand. </span>
  <em>
    <span>But I won’t.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>If I stop him, he’ll obey me. He’s wretchedly good at that. And I’m not in the mood to be obeyed.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Stratosfear muttered something to the guard as they stepped into the alley. Mercury-silver fog drifted, turning eerie colors beneath the flickering neon sign. Someone had purged cheap Engex; the smell lingered, shot through with the reek of motor oil and old Energon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Credits first, lover boy.” All business, Knock Out held out his hand. Transactions were so rarely carried out on the Grid these days.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From a slot in his breastplate Stratosfear produced a chip. “This good enough for you? Twenty thousand, even. Coordinates to the gun locker on completion.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a low purr Knock Out took it. It scanned clean. “Be prepared, that’s my motto in life.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Much obliged.” Stratosfear grinned, cracking his knuckles. “Now get him ready.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that was the sticking point.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown was leaning, arms crossed, against the cleanest stretch of wall. Grime slicked his armor, the blue an eerie bruise-black in the sulfur-yellow light. Still the collar glowed round his throat. Knock Out could’ve felled him with a yank.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something in him had snapped, Knock Out had thought, on the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d been helpless, humiliated--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Knock Out’s Spark burned at the thought, and his inductor twitched lazily beneath its plate.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Scrap. For shame, Knock Out.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>All night they’d been building to this: Breakdown seething, stubborn, silent; Knock Out teetering on the precipice, biting his lip and digging his fingers into his palms--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I know. I’m real pretty.” Breakdown’s optics narrowed. “You gonna do anything, or just stare at me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still he radiated casual fury. The air around him was hot with it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Silly </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” said Knock Out, a bit sharper than he’d meant. “Sounds to me like he’s ready, flyboy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His inductor twitched, more insistently. All night he’d been drunk on Breakdown; the gouges on the palms of his hands, hot and damp now in the wet night, gave it away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From the clinic, muffled voices were drifting, and puffs of smoke mushroomed from the vents. Burning rubber, Knock Out thought, and then: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Whoops. Somebody had to dump some stock.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown chewed his lip, rapping his fingers on his bicep. “You want the money?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was no argument with that, save one--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Real</span>
  </em>
  <span> glamorous thing to do for money.” And then: “You’ve had a lousy night, and I’m in a foul mood. What say we knock off early and ditch flyboy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mute up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It hit like a fist to the jaw.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You trying to protect me?” In the poisonous light Breakdown’s lips gleamed. “Funny thing is, the way I remember it, the whole plan was </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> idea.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The alley steamed beneath his feet. Damp oil flowed in rivulets down his armor. Knock Out felt the sickly glow of Stratosfear’s optics on them, and Breakdown must have, too--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I don’t overload in about ten nanocycles, I’m gonna have to go back in there and kill somebody. So you can wreck me like I scratched your finish, Doc, or you can let me take care of this alone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His jack-plate snapped back, biolights winking. Just visible in the shadow of his breastplate, his jack was slick with lubricant; the scent of warm metal and military-caste carried in the heavy air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out shivered, licking his lips. “Sounds like you’ve got a few wires crossed, Breakdown.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d not meant to say Breakdown’s designation in front of Stratosfear. It tasted dangerous, heady.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You oughtta see me when I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>real</span>
  </em>
  <span> angry. I get crazy.” His wheels whirred. Lubricant dribbled, sparking and snapping in the humidity, down his thigh. “And I’ve done a whole lot worse for a couple shanix.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In answer Knock Out crossed the alley in one step, closing the distance between them. He’d intended surgical precision--but roughly, brutally he grabbed Breakdown’s pauldrons. On the second try he held them fast, dragging Breakdown’s face down to eye level.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His inductor’s hydraulics pressurized, its segments clinking urgently against his plate. The weight of it steered him forward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You crazy overclocked brute,” he spat, his vents opening with a rough hiss. “The things I do for love.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He fumbled for Breakdown’s crest, dragging himself up onto his tiptoes. Their mouths brushed, rough and sloppy, lubricant trickling from Breakdown’s hot mouth into his. Breakdown’s hand found his thigh, and he was off the ground, wrapped in powerful arms, breathing oil and lubricant and salty condensate--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown spun him round, ramming him against the wall with force enough to jar. Knock Out yelped against his mouth, dentae scraping over Breakdown’s lip; under Breakdown’s tremendous weight he was pinned. With a raucous chuckle Breakdown lowered him to the hot ground.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You </span>
  <em>
    <span>barbarian--</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Knock Out gasped. “You’re really cruising for a bruising tonight, aren’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown’s biolights gleamed, pretty as his optics, at Knock Out’s eye level. He smelled of diesel and copper, cordite and salt, musky and overpoweringly strong. For joors he’d been pent-up, his jack dripping lubricant, Knock Out realized, and the charge rushed with a sharp tingle over his faceplate. “Nothing I like more.” He leaned over, bracing against the wall, spreading his thighs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d been shy when they met, a million stellar cycles ago and a galaxy away. Hard to imagine it now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out’s engine growled. He sat up, tasting the air, and buried his mouth in Breakdown’s mesh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was no taste in the world like a healthy, overclocked military-caste. An acquired taste, to be sure; Knock Out drank it up like a bitter cocktail. His glossa tingled with electricity, and diodes buried in Breakdown’s mesh flickered to life against his faceplate. With one hand he steadied himself against Breakdown’s huge thigh, gripping at the seam. Lubricant trickled down his chin, spattering his chestplate. Sloppily he licked, and murmuring curses and endearments he nuzzled and nibbled, his chin pressing into Breakdown’s mesh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Primus,” groaned Breakdown, his whole body trembling. He grunted, bucking against Knock Out’s face--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Knock Out pulled away, his vents dumping air. Pins and needles rushed deliciously over his faceplate; he could feel Breakdown’s lubricant ringing his mouth, warm and sticky.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh?” Breakdown glanced down, squinting around his chestplate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been a long night, and a mad one. Knock Out almost choked on his own laughter, his voicebox stalling. “You’re so </span>
  <em>
    <span>huge</span>
  </em>
  <span> you can’t see around your own--oh, Primus, that’s delicious--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown’s mesh was warm, coarse, sensitive. Knock Out trailed a fingertip along his port, running the tip of his talon around the rim; the mesh was soaked, and with any pressure it oozed lubricant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown growled. “Watch it--” He broke off with a strangled whine as a spark jumped from his mesh to Knock Out’s fingertip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your interface drive gets you into a lot of trouble,” drawled Knock Out, sitting back. If he stopped moving, the night would come crashing down on him. “You’re such a beast. Nothing but big appetites--for Energon and sex and the good times--can’t even control yourself when we’re running a con--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His lips tingled. He shivered with delight. Behind Breakdown, Stratosfear was pacing, tasting the charge on the air, fists balled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You really are just seventeen tons of cable and piston,” purred Knock Out. “No higher functions at all. Nothing going on upstairs.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It crackled on his tongue, as fierce as the ionized air. Breakdown’s optics glowed, half-enraged and half-enraptured.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lucky for you, I like ‘em big and dumb.” It spilled from his synthesizer. Breakdown was almost twitching, his fingertips digging into the filthy wall. “And you’re sure getting bigger, but I don’t know about </span>
  <em>
    <span>dumber</span>
  </em>
  <span>--as long as you can still walk and talk--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was vicious, unstoppable; the charge in the air drew it out of him, as if every word were magnetic. Knock Out reached up, dragging his talons down Breakdown’s aft with a savage squeak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His inductor was aching, hydraulics pulsating. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not here. Not in the street</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not when Breakdown’s the merchandise and I’m just the dealer.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>it</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” croaked Breakdown raggedly, “I’m gonna--I’m gonna--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re gonna </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Breakdown?” Knock Out bit his lip, smiling. “Use your words.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown groaned, long and loud and desperate, throwing his head back. Like a blind mechanimal he paced, reaching between his own thighs; Knock Out caught, with a spark of glee, the frantic clink of thick fingertips on soaked mesh--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s ready,” drawled Knock Out, settling lazily against the wall. “Don’t hurt him </span>
  <em>
    <span>too</span>
  </em>
  <span> much. That’s my job.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He watched at first, still dizzy with desire. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Keep a cool head. If Breakdown’s going to lose it--and odds are ninety-nine to one--</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Though Breakdown’s self-control had been extraordinary, for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shuttered his optics, rubbing the cool heels of his hands into his aching faceplate. The night flashed up in confused flickers: the ghostly scientific-caste, writhing in the guard’s lap; Breakdown’s raw shudder as the Arachnicon stroked his cheekbone, calling him </span>
  <em>
    <span>it</span>
  </em>
  <span>; the word </span>
  <em>
    <span>master</span>
  </em>
  <span>, husky in Breakdown’s rumbling voice; the bright and filthy tile--</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s just one con,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he reminded himself, wearily. </span>
  <em>
    <span>One quick job, and then we’re sitting pretty with Straxus paid off</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Stick to the plan</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In Stratosfear’s arms, Breakdown was grunting and bucking. Stratosfear held him from behind, and--</span>
  <em>
    <span>now that’s a mod</span>
  </em>
  <span>--two electric-green tentacles, slick with lubricant, thrust with a squish into Breakdown’s jack. Knock Out watched, nibbling his lip. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He’s something. He really is. Unstoppable when he puts his mind to something--</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Stratosfear cooed, nuzzling Breakdown’s neck, and Breakdown growled and ground back against him. “You’re tough. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>like</span>
  </em>
  <span> tough.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s kinky and overcharged,” drawled Knock Out, “and he does silly things to prove a point.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiled a little as he said it, though he ached with exhaustion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown was panting, his fans working on overdrive. His optics had long since glazed over; a trickle of lubricant ran from his clenched dentae to his chin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re--” Stratosfear broke off, clawing deep into Breakdown’s shoulders. “Frag--</span>
  <em>
    <span>frag</span>
  </em>
  <span>, tough guy, you’re getting all wet and sloppy for me--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It carried on the night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“--a lucky guy, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Doc.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” He turned his head, rutting against Breakdown’s thighs; his faceplate was stark, serene. He might’ve been drinking still at the bar. “Take good care of this one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was too close to the quick. Rich, from a mech fragging a condemned man. Knock Out pursed tingling lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> a sexual dynamo, isn’t he?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then it was over, and Breakdown was sprawled in Knock Out’s arms. Gritty condensation trickled over his armor, glistening, carrying the dirt away with it. His vents roared as he shuddered. “We--uh--we get the money?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>You</span>
  </em>
  <span> got the money.” Again, as if in a dream, Knock Out scanned the chip. It was legitimate--stolen, perhaps, or plucked off a dead bot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tucked it away. By night’s end he’d approve the transaction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The night was oddly still now. Knock Out’s fingertip brushed over the brand in Breakdown’s chestplate, tracing the raw metal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gotta say,” Breakdown mumbled, “that was better than a shift in the mines. You get fragged either way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Witty. Don’t make it a habit.” For Breakdown’s voice was exhausted and rough, however casual his words. “You’ll wear out your jack. That’s the absolute </span>
  <em>
    <span>Pit</span>
  </em>
  <span> to replace.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Think Soundblaster might have a lead on a new one.” Breakdown sat up, with a low creak. “You’re welcome.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out’s hand lingered for an instant on his chest, holding him--not quite tenderly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re a marvel.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The brawn to your brains, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm.” Knock Out kissed his crest. They huddled together in the sulfur-yellow night. “My right-hand Con. And my left hand. And probably part of my arm.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Quit while you’re ahead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That? That’s what I like to see.” It was Stratosfear. They leapt apart, as if away from searing iron; Knock Out’s faceplate crackled with humiliation. For a klik he’d been </span>
  <em>
    <span>vulnerable</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “A little bit of affection in a lonely world.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You here for round two?” Breakdown’s chuckle was forced. “That’ll be extra.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“After that little display? I’d be a monster to split you up.” Stratosfear’s optics and dentae winked in the dark, a ghostly grin. “I don’t know what you boys are planning, but I hope you get it. And--word to the wise--Soundblaster screwed me on my last mods.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Literally or figuratively?” said Knock Out, still piqued.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Take your pick.” Stratosfear’s wings rustled, ribbons of light shooting through the jet-black metal. “He keeps his credential chips pretty close to his chest, if you take my meaning. Might have to get up close and personal with him. But obviously--” He winked. “You two lowlifes have no trouble with </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Coolant rushed through Knock Out’s lines. He nearly rose--but Breakdown was dead weight on his arm, and with a little chuckle Stratosfear turned on his heel and was gone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Think he won,” deadpanned Breakdown.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And to that Knock Out had no immediate reply.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Arm in arm they limped past the guard. At the threshold, with the night at their backs, they paused.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Last chance to burn rubber getting out of here,” murmured Knock Out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Couple of doctors aren’t gonna break me.” And Breakdown’s laugh was dark and wild, and Knock Out would replay it for quartexes, he knew. “Mining. Boxing. Selling any part I can. It’s all the same scrap, Knock Out, and it hasn’t worn me down yet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ooo, tough customer.” The lead crackled in his hand. In the shadow of Breakdown’s chestplate, where no observer would see, he planted a quick kiss on the brand. “Well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>lot 5940</span>
  </em>
  <span>, let’s break ‘em down--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“--and knock ‘em out.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They ordered two drinks and scarcely tasted them. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What,</span>
  </em>
  <span> mused Knock Out, </span>
  <em>
    <span>would I give to get good and squiffy right now</span>
  </em>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He held the drink to Breakdown’s lips, tipping in the slightest measure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s it?” Breakdown snorted, keeping his voice low. “I was </span>
  <em>
    <span>kidding</span>
  </em>
  <span> when I said you were putting me on a diet--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When we get out of this scrapheap, I’ll stuff you until you creak, if you like.” Knock Out rolled his optics. “Can’t have your tanks too full when I cut you open.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They counted down the cycles, Knock Out rapping his fingers on the bar, Breakdown kneeling like a colossus at his feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lot 5935 sold, after long kliks of dead air, to a Praxian arms dealer. Lot 5936, two half-rusted cadavers welded together, didn’t sell at all. (“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Quelle surprise</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” muttered Knock Out.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You got a plan?” Breakdown’s voice was a vibration in his armor, so low it was almost inaudible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. D’you need a plan?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not really. Master.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment they sat in silent contemplation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever I say up there--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You better mean it, sir. More convincing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out, who’d come to the same conclusion, stared into his empty Engex glass. “Anything off-limits?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Try not to kill me.” And then: “You know me pretty well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two blank-faced clones shuffled past, Lot 5938 slung over their shoulders, and Breakdown fell silent and bowed his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Not well enough</span>
  </em>
  <span>, said Knock Out silently. Even in the privacy of his own mind it was embarrassing.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Whatever happens up there, Breakdown, we’re in it together. Equals.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He winced at the sincerity of it, and shuddering he finished Breakdown’s drink. It did not satisfy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then Soundblaster’s voice was crackling on the public lines, “Lot 5940, to the front--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown rose first, drawing himself up to his full height. With admirable blankness he stared at nothing. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’d almost think you were stupid--</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Up close, he smelt still of lubricant and grime. </span>
  <em>
    <span>A little treat for me.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Knock Out rose, in turn, and almost silently he padded up the steps, lead in hand. With footfalls like thunderclaps Breakdown followed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Under the spotlights it was maddening, impossible to think. The light streamed down from all directions, washing out all else; he squinted, picking out lean-tos and white surgical tents, the silhouettes of gutted hulls--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Evening.” It was automatic. “Nice to see a big audience.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mumbles from the crowd, and whoops. Behind him, Breakdown’s engine thrummed dangerously; in the pooling spotlights Breakdown cast little shadow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not exactly thunderous applause, but I’ll take it.” He beamed. A practiced smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yes, Senator, I can shave a good forty kilos off you, easy as you please. You’ll feel a million stellar cycles old again.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Behind him, Breakdown shifted, almost inaudibly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Get on with it</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was a surgeon in Vos,” he purred, in a slinkier register. “Worked on Senators and Air Commanders. Anything you could pay for, I could do. Made a few dreams come true. Can’t tell you whose--but if you’re thinking Starscream--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A laugh line. It garnered a few hoots, no more; Knock Out’s faceplate stung.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then times got hard, and we all had to find--ah--alternate employment.” A pause. “But I haven’t lost those skills, stitching up poor saps on some anonymous battlefield. And tonight, I give you--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He twitched the lead, and grave-silent Breakdown stepped forward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good boy,” said Knock Out, carelessly. “My </span>
  <em>
    <span>lovely</span>
  </em>
  <span> assistant. Everyone clap.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No one did.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Under the lights Breakdown’s faceplate was washed-out, his optics pale. Still he set his jaw, shoulders squared and thrust back, and Knock Out suppressed a proud little smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve fed him--and </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> cost me a mint. He’s not exactly dainty. Maintained him--warframes, y’know, can’t reach their own backs. Hauled him over four contested states and two battlefields. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Personally</span>
  </em>
  <span> mind-whammied him with a drill to the neural net.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He patted Breakdown’s folded arm, feeling the rumble of irritation run through him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And tonight, mechs and femmes, for </span>
  <em>
    <span>your</span>
  </em>
  <span> pleasure, I’m going to gut him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He let it sink in, wishing--with a perverse little burn--he might’ve seen their faces.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s all for sale, ladies and gentlemen. Everything you see here. T-cog? Could be yours.” He held up his hand, popping open a fingertip; the wire buzzed, the arc brutally bright. Knock Out traced a neat line down Breakdown’s chest, a lazy coil of metallic smoke rising. “Fuel tank? Not sure why you want it, but be my guest.” A friendly jab to Breakdown’s grille. “Armor? I’ll </span>
  <em>
    <span>personally</span>
  </em>
  <span> cut it down to size for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown stared ahead, unblinking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I do mean </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything</span>
  </em>
  <span> must go. Optics? Two-for-one. Dentae? I’ll pull ‘em. Left inferior fuel tank sub-gasket? I’ll cut it out </span>
  <em>
    <span>just</span>
  </em>
  <span> for you. I’m not going home until he’s stripped right down to the chassis. We’re selling everything but the Spark, ladies and gentlemen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Murmurs drifted up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And if you want the Spark of this beautiful specimen--well.” Knock Out smiled, ever so brightly. Breakdown had loved and loathed that phony smile in equal measure. “I’ll bottle it for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could’ve done the sales pitch in his sleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now, you might be asking yourselves, what did this poor guileless war machine ever do to me?” </span>
  <em>
    <span>What indeed.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Other than being </span>
  <em>
    <span>criminally</span>
  </em>
  <span> handsome--and one does get jealous of such chiseled features--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown’s faceplate was warming, he knew; the light seemed to fall differently on him, a blazing halo over his pretty copper face.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You were meant for the spotlight, Breakdown.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m a big believer in equality,” drawled Knock Out. “Imagine it. If the only thing keeping you from the body you’ve always wanted was filthy lucre--well, this whole war would be a bit of a joke, eh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was no turning back now. He raced onward, propelled by his own momentum. Only Breakdown’s sturdy presence beside him kept his voice level.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shockwave churns out some </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine-</span>
  </em>
  <span>looking warframes and sends ‘em straight into the harvesters. No sense of art. My word, the waste.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His smile, he knew, was bright enough to blind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So I’ve--let’s say acquired--one of those big monsters. Restored him </span>
  <em>
    <span>tenderly</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Like my own conjunx.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He petted Breakdown’s shoulder. Smacked his aft, to a chorus of whoops and hollers; Breakdown jumped at that, and the laughter grew, washing from one side of the clinic to the other.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look at him. Doesn’t even know what’s going to happen to him.” Knock Out nuzzled Breakdown’s arm, and felt him tense--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--and in a tiny motion, Breakdown shoved something into his palm, something sticky and half-melted in Breakdown’s hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the idea flashed between them, without comms or speech.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Breakdown, you kinky malfunction. You devilish schemer. You weird boy.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“He thinks he’s getting an Energon goodie after this,” drawled Knock Out, and he held the goodie high. “Truth be told, Shockwave’s making ‘em pretty stupid these days--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Breakdown dropped with a thunderous clatter to one knee, staring pathetically up. His lips moved, fractionally: </span>
  <em>
    <span>You owe me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out nodded, ever so slightly.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Not the worst thing I’ve done over a couple hundred thousand stellar cycles. Ah, domesticity. Can’t beat it.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“On your back, Army-surplus. Play dead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A roar of laughter from the crowd.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Beg.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Breakdown snatched at it, like a turbofox after a toy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out stepped forward, his armor gleaming like the Kaonian sunset, and pressed a toe to Breakdown’s battered chest. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Polish</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For an instant he thought Breakdown would balk--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--but, his gaze steady and conspiratorial, Breakdown licked a warm wet line up his calf. And the laughter bubbled up, everywhere at once, with sickening force, and in Knock Out’s chest a hot flame of indignation swelled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good boy,” drawled Knock Out, running a knuckle over his crest. Without looking, he hurled the Energon goodie to the stage. “Get that. Ladies and gentlemen, how much for the T-Cog? Do I hear a thousand?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the bidding started, fast as a hail of bullets. Breakdown had a roomful of admirers. The public channel was a roar of static; as Knock Out beamed and Breakdown knelt obedient and vacuous, individual messages slipped through. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ll take him whole, for a pet. Wouldn’t be right to kill a beauty like that.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You’ll have to pay me to take his brain.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You’re a couple of charlatans. There’s nothing wrong with that mech at all.</span>
  </em>
  <span> And then: </span>
  <em>
    <span>But I’ll take the armor, since you’re selling.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The last bid came in over the commlink, a flat processed bleat of a voice. “Forty thousand for the whole lot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sold,” said Knock Out, with a smile of sunny loathing, “to--ah--Soundblaster.”</span><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nice work,” he muttered, as they slipped from the stage. “You’re a real actor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Never</span>
  </em>
  <span> make me do that again.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At the foot of the stage the wingless Seeker accosted them. “Back here, sir. Let’s get this over with nice and easy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soundblaster’s medical suite was strikingly shabby: a bare tiled room, furnished with two mismatched operating tables and equipment that would’ve been outdated when it was new. Overhead the light hissed and spat, dumping flurries of ash onto the greasy tile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soundblaster, up close, was an eyesore, Knock Out decided; his black plating sucked at the gaze like a black hole, as if light disappeared into it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown leaned, arms folded, against the door. He’d dropped the cringing act the instant they’d left the stage. “So what’s it gonna be?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Quiet, you.” Soundblaster sprawled on the table, lounging bonelessly. “Nice act, Doc. I nearly bought it myself. He was so docile when we examined him. Like a little newspark.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His laugh was a crackle of static, like a poorly-tuned radio.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But he’s running the whole show, isn’t he?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wouldn’t go </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> far,” said Knock Out, with distaste. “You put my friend here through a lot of trouble.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’ll live,” said Soundblaster. “So to speak.” His visor flickered, and in it Knock Out saw the wild dance of binary code. “The way I see it, the trouble’s all your fault.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As one they watched him, drawing closer together. Just beyond the door, the wingless Seeker’s shadow stretched along the wall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know what I am?” droned Soundblaster, scarcely louder than the hum of the lights.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is this a trick question?” Knock Out’s audials flicked. “Ugly, for one--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Breakdown cut him off, his tone uneasy. “You were at Skyquake Pre-Memorial. I saw you being decanted.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A clone, then. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Breakdown comes through again</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know what </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> is?” Soundblaster’s visor brightened for a klik, as if reflecting a flare. His plates scraped together, subtly misaligned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Big lumbering warframe?” tried Breakdown.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out sucked air into his vents with a low whistle. A mistake: the air was musty and acrid, and he nearly gagged. “Doesn’t take a medical genius to figure that out--though funnily enough…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It fell flat in the stillness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You need an all-natural frame for, uh, something or other--” He tilted his head. “Do clones have T-cogs?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” said Breakdown after a moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Scrap.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“His organs are good.” Soundblaster rubbed his fingers together; the scratching grated on Knock Out’s audials. “But more importantly--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bingo.” Knock Out cut him off. “He’s a one-of-a-kind original. You’ve got a complex about being a knock-off--wouldn’t blame you, personally.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soundblaster regarded him for long cycles, tilting his head; the glare of the ceiling light smeared across his visor as he moved. “You’re tedious.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want my parts,” rumbled Breakdown. “Fine. You can have ‘em.” And again the agitation was creeping into his posture, and Knock Out felt the urge to grab his shoulders, to steady him with a firm hand. “But you better transfer the money first.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soundblaster shifted on the operating table, his plates squeaking over each other. “You won’t rob me, because I’ve had you both searched; I won’t rob you, because I run a honest operation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out and Breakdown exchanged glances--and how could he ever have wondered what Breakdown was thinking, when Breakdown’s thoughts were so plain on his pretty face?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As one, they thought: </span>
  <em>
    <span>you’re kidding me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“You were in Kaon,” intoned Soundblaster, and Knock Out jumped, just a little. “I know who you are, Knock Out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am unforgettable,” said Knock Out, weakly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Again they met each other’s optics: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Scrap</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was nowhere to run. They were unarmed--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The laser core transfer was perfected in Kaon.” Soundblaster’s voice did not rise; his visor did not darken. “Transferring every part of your pet--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My </span>
  <em>
    <span>partner</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“--would be a waste. Relearning to walk. Risking infection or misassembly.” His synthesizer crackled. “You’re not </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> good. Why not transfer my Spark? One simple surgery. Two little incisions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a logic to it. Knock Out drew closer to Breakdown, automatically, as if to shield him. As if he’d do any good.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now,” he said into the hum of the lights, “I can see why you’d want Breakdown’s body--who wouldn’t?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown rolled his optics. “Just do it. Cycle he pays up, put me out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out shuddered,. “You’re eager.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And they’d had a plan--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--</span>
  <em>
    <span>and that worked so well for us so far, didn’t it?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s like I told you. I’m good for two things.” Breakdown’s casual grin was heartbreaking; again Knock Out felt the odd pulse of his Spark in his throat. “Sooner or later I was gonna end up in the Pits--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Breakdown.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“--or on the table. I’ve </span>
  <em>
    <span>been</span>
  </em>
  <span> on the table. Doesn’t scare me.” And of the dark howl in his voice, the simmering bitterness, there was no sign. Breakdown’s optics gleamed, sunny and warm. “Whatever happens, I can take it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Breakdown,” drawled Knock Out, rolling it around his mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?” The lights hummed; Soundblaster’s fingers rubbed together like an Insecticon’s wings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How quiet the room was. How mundane. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Almost a letdown.</span>
  </em>
  <span> They’d planned this far, more or less, and Knock Out felt possibility so close he might’ve reached out to snatch it--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re rotting my dentae. Get on the table.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d never been one for sentiment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As if exhausted after a honest day’s work, Breakdown heaved himself onto the second operating table. He shifted his weight, tugging at the collar’s lead. “Never thought I’d go out with one of these things on me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Priorities, Breakdown.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were desperately close. Knock Out’s armor tingled with anticipation--and fear, too. Funny how little difference there was, in the moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pay up,” he said instead. “Or I’ll open you up </span>
  <em>
    <span>without</span>
  </em>
  <span> putting you out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soundblaster’s synth dumped static; it seemed to wash round the room, over all three of them. He gestured in midair. “Pleasure doing business with you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell the truth,” said Knock Out, thinking of the probe, and of the auction, “I’d rather make a deal with Swindle.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The transaction flashed up on his HUD. He took a moment to savor it, his motor stilling; for a klik he was lost for words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sixty thousand shanix, all told. Sixty thousand and a locker of guns--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>--</span>
  <em>
    <span>for the low, low price of your conjunx’s dignity and one rotten motherboard of a night.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Sixty thousand, when they owed a hundred thousand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were unspeakably close. His hand twitched; he thought perhaps the transaction might slip away, like a soap bubble.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Knock Out,” said Breakdown in a low exasperated tone, and Knock Out accepted the transaction. And time began once again to tick.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stepped between the operating tables, picking his way through a nest of half-rotten cables. On a stained and moldering table Breakdown lay almost calmly; and mixed with the swell of affection Knock Out felt a prickle of annoyance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look alive, Breakdown.” He leaned in, as if to kiss him goodnight. “I’m about to cut you open. Show a little </span>
  <em>
    <span>enthusiasm</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Breakdown laughed, low and rolling and exhausted, and that melted Knock Out’s Spark. “Love you too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out hesitated for only a klik. He went for the collar.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A seventeen-ton mech could survive a full jolt from a Class D-2 Senatorial shock collar with no serious injury. Period of unconsciousness: estimated five cycles.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Who said</span>
  </em>
  <span>, reflected Knock Out, as the searing glare died away from his HUD,</span>
  <em>
    <span> I didn’t pay attention in medical school?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown’s hand twitched, slumping off the side of the berth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out lowered his hand. Watched, for a moment, as his conjunx endura twitched limply on the operating bed. “Thought I wouldn’t do it, didn’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A Con’s a Con,” said Soundblaster, in that dead tone Knock Out was beginning to loathe. “The sedatives are in the cart--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gee,” said Knock Out softly. “That’s nice. I don’t care.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And there was no sound at all for a moment, save the crackle of Breakdown’s wiring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Give me your credential chip,” said Knock Out, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. “While you’re at it, just load me on up with anything you’ve got.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The light sputtered; ash drifted onto Breakdown’s limp frame.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soundblaster laughed, and it was no laugh Knock Out ever cared to hear again. He felt it in his dentae and in his mesh, in his processor and in his Energon lines. “Or </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” In his foggy crimson visor Knock Out saw his own face: pale, drawn, sardonic. Too worn-down to be really triumphant. “We searched you both, inside </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> out. You’re armed with a saw at best--a scalpel at worst--and I’ve got an awful lot of friends here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Or,” said Knock Out, and it sounded quiet and foolish in the silence. “I cut my partner open.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a long klik they regarded one another.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Knock Out raised his saw.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Breakdown,” he said as the echoes died away. “Ever consider that this idea--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown’s optics flickered hazily, one at a time. He ran a shaking thumb down the fresh weld in his chest, tracing the newest incision. “--might be stupid? Couple times.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ever consider,” sad Knock Out, reaching into Breakdown’s warm and humming interior compartment, “that it worked?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hated guns, as a rule; yet the pistol sat comfortably in his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Warframes,” he said, as Breakdown struggled half-blindly to sit up. “So </span>
  <em>
    <span>big</span>
  </em>
  <span>. So much </span>
  <em>
    <span>space</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Thick armor--can’t run a scan through it. If they ping a weapons detector--well--</span>
  <em>
    <span>duh</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yow,” mumbled Breakdown, his optics glazing over. With one hand he supported himself against the surgical table; with the other he reached for the gun, drawing it awkwardly from his chest compartment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“See? Armed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned to Soundblaster again, his optics alight. He ws smiling, he knew, with a simple stupid joy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Chip, please.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“”Worth it?” called Knock Out, as they ran. The alleys reeked, and steam rose in vast acrid clouds from the pavement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown was staggering still, barely keeping pace. “You joking? No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Knock Out might’ve kissed him. Later, he resolved, when they were alone--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Learn any lessons?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breakdown stumbled round a corner, half-tripping over a shattered pipe. Reeking steam flooded into the sky, making them both cough as their vents stuck. And in the middle distance, the footfalls of Soundblaster’s loyalists were approaching.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” roared Breakdown over the rush of escaping steam.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me neither.” And Knock Out reloaded his gun; at once it jammed. “Let’s rock and roll.”</span>
</p>
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